One Night in Bangkok
by Lyra Ngalia
Summary: The nights when Thomas has nightmares are bad. The nights when he doesn't are worse. A companion piece to "Like Gravity, Like Love." Spoilers for: Turn Coat. Warnings: References to sex and drug use.


**One Night in Bangkok**

There are days when it hurts more than others; when I wake up from a full night's sleep and there isn't the memory of being flayed alive and the glory that was life flooding in me. The days when there aren't bad dreams are the hardest, ironically. Those are the days when the doubts return, when I wonder if I could still go back to that starving half-life I'd lived before. Those are the days when I wonder if tooling around with Harry, dodging whatever idiot monster of the month was trying to snack on my little brother, is better than this.

Today's been one of those days.

I spend the day hiding, ignoring Lara and whatever excuse she invents to have some pretty young thing sent to my room. I wait for sunset, for full dark, and I drive to Zero.

* * *

The air inside Zero is thick, heavy with the smell of vice, more than just alcohol and cigarettes, more than smoke and sex. There's a complete lack of inhibition here, a sense of desperate hunger couched in the empty promise of physical satisfaction. For the humans, there are more varieties of drugs than they can count. For us, simply _being_ here is a drug.

It's early yet, but there is already potential. The mood of the club tonight could swing any way, and all I have to do is reach out and touch the pretty young thing in a tiny silk dress. By the end of the night, that dress could be in a puddle on the floor, rucked up over her hips, or clinging to her in tatters. The dull red lights pulsing to the beat of the music bathed the place in a primal glow, and the silk dress is suddenly under my hand as its owner presses herself against me. Like I said, potential.

The music isn't quite to my tastes just yet, too fast and frenzied, without the backbone of bass drumming like an artificial heartbeat, so I guide my little doe to the bar. She tries to make conversation, but all I hear in her voice is want. She's here for a reason, to hunt and be hunted. Every single human who walks into Zero knows, deep in their subconscious mind, that there is something wrong here, that the sirens are leading them somewhere dangerous. But they come anyway, an unending parade of sacrificial lambs. Here, I can drown in it, in desire and abandon. The sound of throbbing bass and the taste of soft skin and rum hold the doubts at bay. There is no room for doubt. There is only feeding.

She has a Cosmopolitan, bright pink and the sort of thing women are expected to drink. Her tastes run darker, to something stronger and much less legal, I know, but that's for later. I have a rum and Coke, heavy on the rum and light on the Coke. It burns a little going down, but the alcohol ultimately doesn't do much, and I am as clear-eyed and desperate for escape as ever. My little doe drinks quickly, trying to match me drop for drop, but all it does is leave her flushed and lightheaded. The music has turned to something more to my liking, so I move to the dance floor.

The silk dress is beneath my hands again, smooth and warmed by her body. For now there is nothing but desire and music, the bass beat drumming life into Zero. Her hips grind against mine, and her hair is an inviting caress against my chest. Around us are more humans, more food ripe for the taking, an endless stream of rhythm and movement, swaying bodies and twining limbs. I can feel it with every touch, her growing desire amid the others, but this isn't enough. I could take her now, but it wouldn't be enough, not on a night like this.

I pull her close and her breath hitches, comes quicker as her heart races. I whisper in her ear, giving voice to her hidden vices and fantasies, and if she'd had a thread of resistance, it snaps in that instant. For tonight at least, and maybe longer, she's mine. She follows as I weave my way off the dance floor, whimpering with need whenever I move too fast and she loses physical contact. The crowd parts subtly for us and I lead her up a spiral staircase. Her touch is warm, and with every step her excitement grows. When we step off the staircase and onto the balcony, she clings to me, all but quivering. Still, I walked on, crossing another catwalk.

This balcony is out of the way, tucked into one of the corners and shadowed, offering more privacy than most of the others. It's on the way to the offices, making it harder to see or be seen here; it's not a popular one most nights but perfectly suited to what I want. The couches surrounding the perimeter of the platform are all empty. I draw my doe close, letting my fingers dance up and down her spine, as I lead her toward the couch closest to the low trunk serving as a coffee table.

She moves with me as I sit down, a warm, pleasant lapful of silken limbs. Her mind is hazy, filled with want, and I smile, brushing my thumb against full ripe lips as my other hand fishes in my pockets. I bring out a tiny clear plastic bag, no bigger than a condom package, of fine powder. Desperation rises through the fog of lust in her mind, desire for what I hold in my hand more than anything else I could give her, and I smile again, palming the packet of heroin.

I nudge her attention toward the trunk and she reaches over, her curves grinding against all the right places. I make some approving noise and she grinds against me again while pulling out a can of Sterno, a syringe, some matches, and a little contraption that I've been told is used for making s'mores indoors but works wonders for more clandestine purposes. I reach over and add my hands to hers, lighting the Sterno, setting a small metal bowl of water over the flame. Her eagerness, her anticipation, is almost tangible, and I drink it in, lips sliding over the curve of her neck, tasting her as she tends the little thing of water. She arches against me, mewling, and I hand her the packet.

She doesn't hesitate, stirring the powder into the warming water, but her motions are nowhere near practiced. Old enough to be addicted, young enough to think she can't die. Vibrant and utterly delectable. I watch her fill the syringe, spilling a little as she does, then my fingers close around hers, trapping her hand and the syringe in mine. She stiffens in my arms for a moment, predictably, but melts against me again when I whisper into her ear. She shifts until she is straddling me, the short silk dress hiked up high on her hips, slim, shapely legs and heels wrapping around my waist eagerly.

One hand trapped in mine, she still manages to undo my jeans, sliding a cool, deft hand against heated flesh. I close my eyes, arching up against her touch, and, for that moment, the world is nothing but flesh and want. But her lips are insistent on mine even as her hips grind against me, and I take the syringe from her grasp, spinning it in my fingers. Her eyes are dark with lust but there's avarice in them as they follow the shining arc of the needle. I draw her close, positioning the needle at the inner curve of her elbow without hesitation. The bright metal tip against soft silky skin, the pulse of blood eager beneath the surface. I kiss her soft full lips, and they yield beneath my touch even as I slide the needle with unerring precision under her skin. Her tiny, involuntary gasp of pain is sweet on my tongue, and I empty the contents of the syringe into her before tossing it onto the table.

She is wearing nothing beneath the silk dress, and I pull her close, the Hunger already racing through her, drawing her every longing to the surface. I can feel the moment the heroin hits her brain. Every emotion, every thought of lust, is electric, alive and intense, as she slides onto me with abandon. One of us gasps, I'm not certain which. All I know is that every touch is intensely sweet, that the Hunger is drowning. She is warm and soft above me and shudders with every motion. The Hunger rises, drinking its fill of her eagerness and her lust, and where there had been pain and cold, dark hunger, there was now warmth and light.

I lead her to the edge, again and again, bringing her to gasping, keening desperate need and withdrawing, toying with my prey as I feed. My little doe moves above me, desperation growing, frenzied with want, but I continue to deny her, to tease her with the promise of release. My eyes close, and the Hunger slows its feeding, temporarily satiated. My hands are at her hips, bringing her down onto me, drawing gasps from those soft full lips as I move to meet her.

And then something changes in the club, a barely perceptible _shift_ in the air as someone enters. It isn't Lara or another member of the family; that I would have recognized in seconds, and I am too busy losing myself in flesh and this doe's growing lust to care about anything not life-threatening. I whisper in her ear, stroking the desires burning within her as my hands run over every scrap of skin I could reach. I tease down the bodice of her dress to taste soft flesh and she squirms against me. Again, that shift in the air, closer now, but I ignore it still, holding on by sheer mental will as I bring my doe to the edge of the abyss again. This time I let her fall, let her tumble screaming over the edge, and I follow, arching hard against her, spilling myself into her.

After a second that feels like eternity, I open my eyes, and there stands the source of that shift in the air, that familiar scent. Justine. Her eyes are wide as she unerringly meets mine, and all I see is hurt and fear. She must be here to take care of Zero's accounting. All that I'd taken that night, that sweet drug-enhanced intoxication, suddenly tastes empty, like bitter ashes. That glorious feeling of warmth and light is washed away, once again leaving behind nothing but pain and cold, dark hunger. Her name is on my lips, but shame and hurt keep me from calling out to her. Something flickers over her face, hope?, but it is gone as quickly as it comes, and I feel my expression freeze into faint recognition, as if she is just another one of Lara's employees. Justine visibly flinches and turns to make her way up another catwalk to the office, leaving me behind, cold and empty, with nothing but this meaningless vapid little doe.

* * *

Leaving the nameless doe in the silk dress on the couch to come off her high, I make my way down to the dance floor, but the air is suddenly too thick, the music all of a sudden too loud, the bass beat dissonant instead of that throbbing heartbeat it had been a few minutes ago. There is desire in my wake, but nothing stirs me despite how hollow and empty I suddenly feel.

I leave without a word to the bouncers. The night is surprisingly cool and I roll down the windows as I pull out of the parking lot. I drive without thought, letting the howl of air and the purring of the car's engine drown out the emptiness and the confusion. It doesn't work, but I can't seem to stop trying.

It's one of those nights, and nothing works.


End file.
